For the Love of All That Is Deadly
by mng042197
Summary: Violet is a girl with a rebellious streak and a deadly attraction to danger. When she leaves home with her rocker boyfriend, she thinks she's finally free. But in her new LA home she finds a new kind of darkness in the spirits that haunt the Murder House
1. Rebellion

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from American Horror Story.**

She walked away that night, wishing she could cry but not being able to find it inside of herself to do so. Violet had planned this. It was what she had wanted for as long as she could remember, but she suddenly wondered if she was doing the right thing. It wasn't leaving, or saying goodbye to her parents that made her hesitant. It was the notion of the promise, the commitment, she was making to Trevor. He was everything that she usually liked in a guy. He was dangerous, out of the ordinary, a musician from Jersey with a history or bad behavior. He was like her. Violet had spent years perfecting the art of rebelling, and it seemed to be the perfect ending to her troublesome childhood: running away with a twenty-five-year-old drummer with long hair and an eagle tattoo on his chest. Vivien and Ben had been furious, as she had expected, even hoped. She had finally cut ties with their control entirely. So why did Violet feel so incomplete?

When the young couple landed in Los Angeles, she decided that she was being silly. Maybe it was the city of their destination that had worried her; she had been right to worry. She didn't belong in LA. She wasn't a star, wasn't talented, wasn't very pretty either. She was just Violet Harmon, the therapist daughter, the troubled youth with a bad attitude. Immediately, she realized just how badly she stuck out—more so than usual. Her purple tights and floral dress, the gray cardigan sweater that hung loosely from her tiny shoulders, the charcoal colored cloche hat that was balanced precariously over her light brown hair, even her beaten old sneakers, suddenly seemed ridiculously gaudy. She didn't care, but she noticed, all the same.

They were staying in Trevor's aunt's old house. She had died earlier that year and he was the only surviving relative. Violet wasn't sure what to expect, but she couldn't imagine that it would be anything grand. Nothing about Trevor or his family members was very glamorous. In reality, they were white trash, at least the ones that she had met.

"Excited?" he asked her as they loaded their things into the taxi: luggage that they had purchased in Boston, with one of her mother's credit cards the previous weekend, just seven days before.

Violet lied. "Absolutely thrilled..." The reply sounded genuine, but that was no surprise. Lying came easily to her.

The music that played softly in the background made her drag her nails against the fabric of her seat. It was mainstream and a woman's auto-tuned voice sang the chorus loudly. She hated it, more than she hated not having any semblance of breasts or having never known what it felt like to actually enjoy being with someone in more than a friendly way. Sex was not her specialty. In fact, she hadn't done it at all, not with Trevor or any of the other boys. Why? Because she hadn't ever cared enough to bite the bullet. It was no secret that Trevor hated her for it, even questioned whether or not he would wait it out.

_Eventually, soon…she can't hold out forever,_ he would always assure himself. It was something he was proud of: his ability to seduce women, but Violet had been a hard nut to crack and he was growing impatient.

"How about tonight, Vivi?" She knew what he meant.

The nickname made her squirm. It reminded her of her mother, but Trevor never seemed to care. She'd told him a million times, too. "I don't know, _Trev_." Violet sneered the word. "And don't effing call me that. You know how much I hate it."

And he did know.


	2. Introduction

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

The house was surprisingly beautiful…old and classic and just a little bit eerie, which only made Violet love it more. For a moment, as she stood on the front steps, all of Los Angeles disappeared and all she saw was her house, her new home. She'd been sold since the moment they turned down the street and she saw it, there at the very end. It simply had to be the one, but even if it had not been, she still would have been thrilled to just live near it. Travis seemed surprised too, but not in the same way as his girlfriend. When she looked his way, the expression on his face was not one of intrigue or even curiosity. All Violet saw there was absolute horror.

For just a moment, it wasn't Travis's face at all that she was seeing. His long brown hair was caked in blood, his eyes dark and dead, his throat slit open. She watched, unable to look away, as the blood fell like a waterfall over his torso, swallowing him in red. His lips moved, managed a strangled cry, and he fell to the ground.

Violet blinked and it was gone. Travis was himself again, all blue eyes and denim. He shrugged in his jacket and made a snorting sound, pulling a cigarette from his back pocket. She couldn't have seen that. IT was impossible. She brushed it off, insisting that her mind was only playing tricks on her again. It wasn't the first time she had seen things that were…wrong.

"This _would_ be the house. Heh." His voice was angry and, as he put the cigarette to his lips, he seriously contemplated lighting the thing on fire. In the end, it seemed like a waste of time. "Hope there's a phone around here we can use, call another taxi. Old bitch left me this? I don't think so."

"What do you mean?" Violet asked, walking up the front steps, onto the porch. The door was just a foot away. She searched through her bag for the keys. She needed to get inside. It was calling to her, just begging for her to embrace it.

"Obviously, we're not going to stay here. It's a freaking crypt."

Being in unusually good spirits, she turned around and smirked deviously. "Hey! No knocking my house. You scared? Too bad. Don't be a baby."

The word _baby_ changed his mind. He wouldn't let that little girl make him out a fool. "Fine, you've got the key?" She did, deep in her messenger bag, underneath all of the cd's and sketch pads she had packed inside. As her hand reached further down, one of the pins that had come undone poked her. She hissed a little under her breath, pulled her arm back, bucked on the bloodied fingertip while her other hand searched.

When she finally pulled out a makeshift bracelet made of braided fabric and a Morrissey key chain, Violet's heart skipped a beat. It slipped easily into the lock and the door fell open as a smile spread across the girl's face. She was fascinated. The house was perfect, dark and ancient. It spoke to her, whispered in her ear. It had been made for her. Even the color of the hard wood floors matched her eyes perfectly.

"Awesome." She mumbled, walking further in, taking in her surrounding with an open mouth and wide eyes. Trevor was not amused.

"Come on. Seriously, let's just get a motel room and chill there for a few days until we can figure out what to do. This is way too much for us to handle, Violet."

He was really beginning to get on her nerves. "I'm staying here, Boyd. You can go wherever you want. Just remember, it's a furnished house and it's _paid for_. You're really gonna pass that up?" He sighed, knowing that she was right. "That's what I thought."

"I'll get our stuff."

Violet walked around downstairs first, then found her way to the basement. The door stuck, but she shoved it open the rest of the way and began to descend the stairs. It was cold there, dark and dank. The sound of mice scampering across the cement floor filled the air, along with that certain scent that always seemed to accompany cellars in old houses. It was like being in the middle of a horror movie and Violet couldn't get enough. Now, if this were a horror movie, this would be the part where music would anticipate something frightening, as the helpless victim rounded the corner into the shadows. But Violet was no helpless damsel and, when she stepped into the shadow and pulled the cord to turn the light on, nothing happened. It disappointed her. The basement was empty.

At least, that was her perception.

"Vivi!" Trevor called from the top of the stairs, making her jump and spin around.

The words that came out of her mouth were a hiss. "What?"

"I think we oughta go pick up a few things…like sheets and pillows and crap. Maybe even some food. I had the gas turned on before we got here, so you can cook for us."

Violet didn't cook. She burned everything, including water. "Why don't you go? I'll stay here, explore a little, get to know the place. Wouldn't want any surprises scaring my little Trevi." Spite: that was the only reason she bothered with the pet name at all. To her way of thinking, they were unnecessary. Didn't they both have whole names?

Once he was gone, Violet finally took a deep breath. Her mother would have asked her if she was in love with Trevor. She always did. And Violet would have had to say no. But that wasn't what mattered. Yes, she had used him. And she intended to continue to use him—for company, comradery. Somewhere, deep down inside of herself, she even believed she might be able to learn to love him someday. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit that she didn't truly believe she was ready to love anyone, that maybe there was nothing wrong with the men she liked. Maybe there was something wrong with her. She was the broken one, not Trevor.

As she made her way to the second story, she thought about her parents: Vivien and Ben Harmon. There was nothing wrong with them, as far as the rest of the world knew. They were a beautiful couple with a beautiful family. But Violet knew how her father couldn't stop sleeping around no matter how much he loved her mother. She knew how Vivien loved her dog more than the man in bed beside her, and how she had been obsessed with getting pregnant since her last miscarriage. She would never recover, Violet was sure. She didn't have it in her to let it go—the dead baby or the infidelity.

There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms. The beds, as Trevor had obviously realized, were completely bare, the mattresses leaned up against the walls.

"You need any help with that?" came a voice from behind her.

When Violet turned around, she saw that it was a boy speaking, about her age, with messy blonde hair and very dark eyes. His hands were dug deep in his pockets and on his face he wore a friendly smile, complimented by childlike dimples. She was so stunned that it actually took her a moment to realize that he didn't belong there.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house." She liked the way the words '_my house_' sounded.

"Tate. Tate Langdon. I'm your neighbor. Live just down the road. I was actually taking a walk and I saw that there were people here. You left your front door open, by the way. I thought someone was casing the joint." The boy laughed lightly and stepped into the room, ignoring Violet's skeptical stare. "I said I'd help you turn the mattresses over."

Her reply was delayed. "Uh…yeah, sure, that'd be great."

Silently, they proceeded to fix each of the beds, until the two found themselves standing in the front entrance of the house. Tate spoke first, breaking the ice with another charming smile, hands still in his pockets.

"You got a name?"

She shook her head sarcastically. "Of course I have a name. It's Violet…Harmon." _Violet._ He liked the name.

"This house is kind of big for just you. Don't you think you'll get a little freaked out being here alone…in the Murder House?" He said it playfully, as though testing her.

Naturally, Violet rose to the occasion. "I'll be just fine. I love this place, actually. And what do you mean by _Murder House_?"

"You don't know?" She shook her head, not that it really mattered. "People who built it…awful story…the husband was a doctor. He ran an abortion clinic out of the house. It was all his wife's idea and very _hush hush_, you know." She couldn't help but chuckle at the voice he used when he said '_hush hush_.' "Anyway, one of the girls told her boyfriend about what she'd done about their baby and he came and took the Montgomery's little boy, cut him up into little pieces. The doctor tried to sew the poor kid back together. Nora Montgomery ended up shooting him in the head, and then she killed herself." There was silence for a moment as Violet processed this, straight faced. "They say it's still here, the Montgomery baby, maybe even his parents too. Are you scared now?"

She scoffed. "I knew I got a vibe from this place. It's so cool…not that they died, I mean. It's just interesting to get the chance to live here. I wish I'd done it sooner." Not that she could have. Her eighteenth birthday was only a week and a half behind her.

Violet's answer surprised him. Anyone he'd ever told had been disturbed by the story—that, or they hadn't believed him. "Really? You're not scared?"

"No. Anyway, I'm not here alone. My boyfriend inherited the place, not that he being here would protect me from much. He pulls off the bad boy image but is he ever a chicken. Ha! I had to practically shove him through the door today."

This pleased Tate. When Violet wasn't looking, he ran his eyes over her once, taking in her strange apparel, the way her dress clung to her body when she moved this way or that. He found her quite attractive, even if he didn't understand why. Then, he saw it: she was fearless, bold. He liked that about her. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you with him then? You seem like you can handle yourself well enough."

"You bet." And she winked. Yes, he definitely knew why he liked her. It was obvious now, the way that she carried herself, the way that she was attracted to the horror rather than repulsed by it. She could understand him, in a way. It was…sexy. Tate couldn't stop the thoughts from slipping into his mind, of how he would like to handle Violet Harmon.


	3. Hallucination

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

It was dark and the house was getting cold. When Violet looked over at the clock on the bedside table, she saw that it was about three in the morning. Trevor was asleep beside her, snoring loudly—so loudly, in fact, that she couldn't sleep. If she had known he snored before, she thought she might not have decided to move in together. The worst part was that she was only half joking. But he was not all that kept her from sleep. The house kept her awake all through the night. They'd been there for days, and she hadn't been able to close her eyes once without hearing something odd, sensing something out of the ordinary, dreaming something horrific. A lot of the images that would flash through her mind were of Trevor, mutilated in various ways, the blood that would coat the hands of whoever had done this too him. Sometimes the hands were large and masculine. Other times, the hands belonged to her.

But, during daylight hours, Violet had fallen in love with the estate. She would walk through the overgrown garden out back, paint murals on the walls of the basement, making the grey cement come to life under her fingertips. Upstairs, in the room overlooking the back porch, she would blare the cd's she liked best, sketch in her notebook. Trevor was never around to keep her company. He spent his days looking for a job, trying to get a band together. But it was hard to make it in the world of music and Violet often doubted that he would ever amount to anything. Regardless of his failures and frustrations, when night fall came, he would try to convince her to do things that she wasn't sure she was quite ready for.

In the moment, however, there was no denying to be done, and Violet's disgruntled boyfriend was soundly asleep beside her. She knew that she would have to give in soon. She was eighteen years old, living with a man more than seven years older than herself. Holding out wasn't going to fly for much longer and she had nowhere else to go. She had put herself there, in that little box, and she would have to live with that—make it work.

The sounds of the house were loud in her ear, creaking and squealing restlessly. Often had she thought of the story that Tate had told her that first day, when she arrived in Los Angeles, and, in her mind, she had begun to refer to her new home as the Murder House. It made her feel brave to call it her home, to curl up in the upstairs bedroom and think of the possibility of lingering spirits. She didn't believe that they were still there, but it elicited such delight from her to be reminded of the place's dark history. It was all so fascinating, cloaked in an artificial danger: something that Violet thrived on.

But her eyes were beginning to droop and all she wanted was to fall asleep. She hummed the melody of a nameless song to herself as she stared up at the ceiling, focused on the patterns in the drywall, the warm mahogany wood working that made up the crown molding. When Violet was a little girl, back in Boston, her mother had sang her the exact same song. She had never known the name, but it comforted her. The tune was soft and sweet and sad, a beautiful love story wrapped in tragedy. Over the years, Violet had grown to secretly envy the subjects of the ballad, wishing that it could somehow relate to her and her own life.

The mood changed suddenly as she heard a crash downstairs.

She sat up ram rod straight. "Trevor! Wake up, Trevor!" It was a whispered shout as she shook him roughly. He didn't stir. "Damn it, Trevor, get up!" He didn't.

So Violet slowly swung her legs onto the floor, clutched for the letter opener that rested on her nightstand. She used it to open bills because it made her feel like she was in an old movie. Now, it became a weapon. She crept down the stairs slowly, listening to hear the same clamber, this time coming from the basement. There was not much light as she descended into the dank space, but she didn't dare to flip the switch. Her knees buckled, reminding her that she _was_ afraid of some things. Being murdered in the middle of the night happened to be one of them.

As she rounded the corner, something hit her hard in the back of the head. Her vision went black as she felt her body dragged aside.

"She's coming around." A voice said. When Violet opened her eyes, the basement looked different. She was surrounded by medical equipment. Precepts, bottles of chemicals, scalpels. Her body was sprawled over a cold, metal table, her arms secured to her sides. Her regular clothes were gone, having been replaced by a white hospital gown. Around her, stood three different people.

The first and most startling was an older woman with dark brown hair, almost black. Her eyes were wide, dead, and her skin was colorless. Her face had been marred by long, deep cuts: a Glasgow smile. Reflexively, Violet shied away from her, pressing her body forcefully to the table, smacking her head against it. It took Violet a minute to collect herself, to remind herself that she would not be afraid. What was there to be afraid of? She regretted asking that question.

Beside that woman stood a doctor, tall and distinguished, fingering a large scalpel, a surgical mask covering everything but his eyes. And beside him stood another woman. She was tall, slender, and beautifully dainty, with long blonde curls and delicate features. Her smile was soft and comforting, almost dreamlike. For a moment, she almost forgot the horror of it all. Then, the woman turned her head to the side and Violet caught sight of the gaping exit wound marring the back of her perfect head. She couldn't stop the scream that came from her lips, howling in absolute horror.

The doctor came forward, looming over her, the blade of the instrument he held hovering just a hair from the skin of her cheek. The veins of her neck stood out as she strained to pull away from him, strained against the restraints that held her in place. Finding that it would do her no good to pull against what held her wrists, she thought of an alternative. Violently, she slammed her head forward, connecting in with the doctors with a loud smack.

He went staggering back, dropped his tool. But this would not save her. The gruesome, black-haired woman came forward, retrieved the tool from the floor

where it had fallen. She would not make the same mistake as the other had. Her hand came up to press down Violet's head forcefully, pinning her there. A malicious look crept over her face as she began to cut, her lips moving awkwardly, dripping blood onto her victim's face.

"Look at what he did to me. Soon, we'll match."

But before she could, a voice pierced the silence.

"Stop!"

Violet sat up in bed, breathing heavy, sweat beading on her forehead. It hadn't been real. It had all been a dream. Relief flooded through her, then anger at how ridiculous she was being. Of course it had been a dream—or, rather, a nightmare. How could she have ever thought it was real?


	4. Insubordination

**Author's Note: Just wanted to say how much I appreciate all of the reviews. It seriously made my day…no, my whole week. I'm so glad that people are enjoying the story. Thanks! And keep reading and reviewing please!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

Violet watched as the razor blade cut through the skin of wrist, not deep enough to do any real damage, just enough to draw blood. She liked to see the red spots that dripped into the porcelain sink, a striking contrast against the white. It wasn't the first time she had cut. The scars up and down her arms were proof of that. The first time had been in the fourth grade, the year her mother had miscarried, the same year her father had had his first affair. From there on out, it was all a blur, though she somehow was sure that she would remember the origin of this particular scar.

When she was finished, she covered the scabbed over wound with her sleeve and a pair of fingerless gloves—the same ones she always wore for just this purpose. She walked out of the bathroom, into the front hall of the house, mentally checking if she had hidden the blades. She came to the conclusion that she had.

"Going out tonight?" Violet asked as Trevor headed for the door, shrugging casually into his jean jacket. Just the morning before had she woken up in a panic from that awful dream. She didn't like to paint the basement walls anymore, didn't like to go downstairs at all. In fact, she had taken to spending most of her time smoking in the gazebo in the backyard.

Trevor nodded a yes, shoved a cookie into his mouth and mumbled that he'd be back soon. He took a moment to chew and swallow before he added to the response. "I'm meeting some guys at that bar I told you about. They're interested in starting a band. We might even be able to get a gig at that joint. One of them is friends with the owner."

"Ah." was all Violet had the chance to say before he was out the door.

And she was alone. The silence engulfed her, and she decided it was time for a smoke. The gazebo was nice and she liked to sit on the railing, look out at the back of the property. It was nice and big and she could just barely see the house behind her through the trees. She inhaled slowly, held the smoke in, then exhaled. In Boston, she'd always had to walk down to the convenience store down the street and hide behind the dumpsters in the back before she could even light a cigarette.

"Hey." The voice startled her, and she teetered on her perch, but a pair of strong arms caught her before she could fall. When she looked up, she saw that it was Tate.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that." She snapped, resituating herself as she noticed that her hat had fallen off. It was knitted, almost like a loose beret that hung primarily to one side. It was one of her favorites.

"Here," Tate offered, dusting the cap off and handing it to her. Her hands seemed so small to him, so fragile. He wondered what it would be like to touch them, to _be _touched by them. "I've missed you, neighbor."

Violet chuckled. "Huh, you too. Want one?" she offered him the pack and the lighter but he declined, only smiling at her as he took the lighter in his hand and began to play with it, running his finger over the flame.

Somehow, they ended up inside, upstairs in the back room listening to music. Violet was laughing and Tate hung on her every word, waiting with bated breath to see what she would do next. There was nothing about her that he didn't like, nothing that didn't take his breath away, make him want to be closer to her. AS she sat cross-legged on the floor, he observed the way her slender arms were folded in her lap, the way her hair hung perfectly straight, the way her mouth quirked up into a crooked smile, the way her cheeks flushed. It had to be almost seven at night, but neither of them could say how much time had passed. They hadn't even noticed that the sun had set, that it was dark outside. Most of all, Violet hadn't realized how soon Trevor would be home.

But she didn't want to think about it, and so she didn't.

"Don't you get lonely up here, if he's never around?" Tate asked her, looking up at her through his deep brown eyes, the shadow of his shaggy blonde hair.

She liked him, the way he didn't beat around the bush. "Yeah. I really don't know why I came here with him. Well, no, I do know; I wanted to get away from home. But I could have done that without Trevor, I guess. He was just the final nail in the coffin for my parents, that last little thing that would send them over the edge."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Rebellious much?"

She didn't need to respond to that. They both knew. "Sometimes, it can be a problem."

And then, something occurred to Tate that made him smile mischievously. "How wild and rebellious are we talking here?"

Violet didn't understand, but played along all the same. "Very…_insanely_…"

Then, he said it. What was the worst that could happen? "Wild and rebellious enough to kiss the neighbor in your boyfriend's house?"

Then, she understood and, after brief deliberation, made up her mind about Tate Langdon. "It's my house too."

Without another word, she pulled him into her, their lips meeting feverishly as she clutched roughly at the fabric of his shirt. His arms came to caress the small of her back, pressing her torso tightly to his and trapping her hands between them. There was no space between them and Tate began to lean backwards, pulling Violet along with him until she rested on top of him. It was just as he had imagined, just as wonderful. He felt like flying, like never letting go. In the beginning, he had wondered if he would be able to attract her to him. Now he was sure that he had made all the right choices.

Violet moaned when he sucked on her bottom lip, his fingers digging into her sides. She worried that she would be bruised the next morning, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Trevor had never been so successful in making her feel like she should, so desperate to be touched, to be kissed. Just the feel of his lips on hers, the taste of his mouth, was so much better. Their breathing was becoming ragged when, suddenly, they heard the door slam shut. And the moment was over.

If it had been up to Tate, he wouldn't have paid the intruder any mind. Trevor was a nuisance in every way. But there were reasons why he couldn't know, and Violet wasn't going to spill the beans right away. After all, it had only been a kiss. What was that worth?

She fixed herself quickly, smoothing out the fabric of her floral dress, readjusting the sleeves of the shirt she wore underneath, to cover her scars. Finally, she fixed her hair. Tate didn't move, only sat there on the floor watching her.

"Get up!" she hissed.

But he didn't see the point. "Why?"

"Because you have to leave. Come down and meet Trevor…pretend you were just stopping by to meet the new neighbors."

He complied, though he didn't want to. He felt oddly possessive considering that he hardly knew the girl. But she would be his; she had to be. He wanted her like he had never wanted anything. So why should Trevor be allowed to call her his?

The disheveled young man stood at the bottom of the staircase, an older guy standing beside him. He was tall and heavy, covered in tattoos with a bandana tied over his bald head. Violet really didn't want to go downstairs, didn't want to send Tate away, He was the most interesting person she had met in a long time, not to mention the first guy she had ever been so instantaneously attracted to.

"Vivi, this is Spike. Spike, meet my babe." She rolled her eyes and, as Tate descended the staircase, he thought he might kill Violet's little boy-toy.

"What's shakin', Boyd?" Violet questioned. "You two going on the road?"

But he didn't reply, because he was too busy watching as Tate came to stand beside them. With panicked eyes, Violet began to explain. "This is Tate Langdon. He lives down the road, just came by to meet us about ten minutes ago. Tate, this is my boyfriend, Trevor." She smiled unwillingly, expecting Trevor to do the same, but he didn't.

"Huh." was the only word he said to him before, with a death stare, their guest walked out the front door.


	5. Salvation

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

"What do you think you were doing, huh? Letting that little punk in here? What is he, sixteen?" Trevor shouted, slamming his fist against the countertop in the kitchen. Violet shuttered at the sound of his booming voice and shrank back. She hated it when he did this. _Over possessive oaf. _"Did you give it up to him, Vivi? You like him so much? If you're such a little whore, why can't _I_ get any action?"

She was infuriated. It only took her a second to cross the room. She didn't think before she hit him, didn't stop to consider the consequences of her actions. He was shocked, but Violet wasn't finished. "I'm not a whore. He's just some guy that came here to welcome _you_ to the neighborhood. Not everybody is trying to move in on your territory, Trevor! In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a sex symbol. And I don't _belong_ to you! I'm your girlfriend, not some possession you can flaunt."

He approached her with stoic composure, like the calm before the storm, his words slow and precise. "You know, Vivi, I never was very good at sharing my toys when I was a kid. Nothing much has changed. So, if you ever…" And his fist connected with her face, knocking her down to the ground. "…even think about letting that bastard into my house again…" A kick to her ribs elicited a pained cry. "I will personally beat both his and your face in. Understand?" Trevor lifted her up by her hair, forcing him to look into her eyes. She nodded, completely at a loss for words. "And don't try to leave, either. If you do, you won't be the only one to pay."

She wondered if he was high. She hadn't gotten a good look at his eyes, but she was sure he must be. He never could handle himself well and his temper was too short. She was afraid of him now, afraid of what he would do to her. "Just go to bed, Trevor." Violet tried to make her voice cold, but it was hard. She couldn't think straight. She could see all of those images—Trevor dead, cut in different way, bloody and dismembered. She never understood them, but she had always thought it was just her imagination running away with her, the combination of the house and her frazzled nerves. Things were always worse when she had tangible settings to draw from.

"Tonight's the night, Vivi. Go get freshened up."

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. She wouldn't give into him. She couldn't, especially not then. She thought about what it had felt like to kiss Tate, about how much better it would be to do those things with him, all of the things that Trevor demanded of her. At one time, she had found him attractive. But he had recently paled in comparison to her new acquaintance. It just wasn't the same.

Violet was pulled from her thoughts by another blow to her ribcage. "Go, now!" Trevor shouted, and she complied. She was in no position to be difficult. She needed a plan.

The bathroom became her safe haven. As she stared into the mirror, though, it too became dangerous. Her lip was blood and the blood had dripped down onto her sweater and her jeans. But that wasn't what disturbed her most. In the mirror, she could see something in the shower, hanging there, swaying slightly back and forth. Her eyes grew wider, and then slammed shut. She wanted it to go away, because it wasn't real. But, when she opened her eyes, it was still there. Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to freeze. It reminded her of her dream from the other night, the face of the mutilated woman, the doctor, the woman whose brains had been blown out. She was really beginning to lose it.

But, being Violet, she had to know for sure. So, she turned around and slowly approached the shower. Her hand found the curtain, clutched at it. After taking a deep breath, she pulled it back, then began to cry uncontrollable, hysterically. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't find her voice. This was worse than anything. Behind the curtain hung a man, severed in half at the waste, each side hung to drain like a, animal in a butcher shop. His eyes were open, staring out at her with the most frightening state of consciousness. He even blinked, spoke.

"Your little lover could be like me. So could _you_."

Violet didn't think, only knew she needed to get away. She turned around, unable to escape the image as the mirror kept it in her view. She opened the medicine cabinet hurriedly, slamming it against the wall, searching desperately for the sleeping pills she knew were there. They could take her away from there—from Trevor and the living corpse behind her, from the visions that never seemed to go away. The truth was that she had lived with them forever; it was why she was so fearless. But never before had they been so real, so intense.

She swallowed the capsules dry, taking them down in groups of three until the whole bottle was empty. Then, she lay down on the bathroom floor and let sleep take her, hoping that death would too.

"Violet!" he screamed when he found her, lying with her face pressed against the cold tile floor of the bathroom. Beside her was an empty bottle.

He could feel his heart pounding out a jagged rhythm in his head. It sounded so vital, but he knew the truth. Without a thought, he picked her up off the ground and dragged her over the tub, pulling her in on top of him. He turned on the water, soaking them both, but she didn't react. She was dying. His fingers found their way to her mouth, down her throat. With a gurgling sound, she vomited into the water pooling around them. Finally tears began to poor down her cheeks as she came to.

"Violet, please don't die." He gagged her again. Both of them were panicked, frenzied, terrified. But he tried to stay calm. Violet could hardly remember how she had gotten there, why she had taken the pills. She remembered the awful face in the mirror, the way Trevor had threatened her. She also remembered that, if she lived, she had to live in fear of him, of what he would do to her if she tried to leave him.

It was a long while before she had thrown all of the pills up. Whoever had found her had been persistent, determined. He hadn't left to call 911. He'd stayed there with her, hadn't left her side. It didn't seem like Trevor, to be so capable under pressure. But it must be. There was no one else in the house, no one who could have found her.

She was soaking wet and exhausted and she could feel her limp body being lifted from the bath tub. She could hear water dripping from her clothes onto the floor, the sound of footsteps as she was carried down the hall, up the stairs. She felt the wet material being peeled away from her body, replaced by dry clothing. She was tucked into bed before she knew it, a warm body curled up beside her, mumbling various things in her ear.

"Violet, please wake up. Please." The sensation of warm lips against her neck was what brought her to her senses. She knew that they didn't belong to Trevor, and neither did the soft voice.

"Tate," she managed weakly, struggling to roll over. Her body felt so heavy.

"It's okay, Vi. Just tell me that you're okay."

She only nodded.

Why was he there with her? How had he found her? Had he snuck in? Where was Trevor? She had a million questions and no answers, but those would have to wait. For the moment, she curled into Tate's side, feeling his warm, muscular body against her and feeling small. Her kissed her head, ran his hand lovingly over her hair, and Violet felt something that she never had before. Aside from being safe, there was something else, something uncommon to her. Actually, the emotion was so foreign in her mind that she didn't know what to call it. Then, she found the right word.

Violet felt loved.


	6. Realization

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

She looked so broken. It made Tate sick. Violet had fallen asleep hours ago, tears still running down her cheeks. She'd taken quite a beating, and then that damn pig had frightened her so badly. He got a sick rise out of that shower routine, but he was dead. It wasn't his fault that he'd lost it. Trevor, on the other hand, had no excuse. Her face was hopelessly bruised, her lip bloodied. Tate had been worried that he'd broken her ribs, but had come to the conclusion that they were only bruised badly. He watched her sleep, still tucked into his side, so fragile, so delicate. She was so brave, and yet so easily harmed.

He wasn't sure where Trevor had gone, but he'd left after banging on the bathroom door for a while. Tate's guess was that he had gone to the bar. It was what he always did after he and Violet had a fight. This time, however, he had left her to die. There hadn't been much time left when Tate finally found her, and it killed him to think that he might have been too late. The fact that she was still there, still breathing, was a miracle.

His fingers graved the sides of her face as he relished the idea that he had saved her, that she was alive because of him. He felt proud almost, that he had been of use to her, that he had done something right. Lord knew he had done so much wrong in his life. But Violet was different. He never wanted to hurt her, do anything that would make her upset. He only wanted for her to be happy, no matter what it took. Watching from a distance was difficult, especially with that Boyd treating her badly all the time. Tate knew that she didn't deserve it, that she could never do anything so awful. Nothing could justify ill done to that girl.

The one thought that dominated Tate mind, though, was how he would make Trevor pay. The evidence of his assault only fueled his anger, and he had never been one to control his rage very well. He fantasized about all of the things he could do to him, how he could string him up like the ghost in the shower or something equally as awful. But all of the scenarios lead to the same problem. If Trevor died there, his soul would be trapped in the Murder House for all eternity. That anyone should have to live forever with a beast like him seemed intolerable.

Violet was stirring beside him and he figured that he had better calm himself down. So he did; he concentrated very hard on not being angry, on only seeing the girl that was wrapped safely in his arms, broken though she was.

"You awake, Violet?" he questioned, pulling her more tightly to his chest. Her shoulders trembled slightly and he pulled away to look at her face.

She was completely motionless and straight faced, staring directly ahead of her with a blank expression coloring her countenance. "Thank you, Tate." The phrase was simple, but it said everything that needed to be said.

Violet knew that she would be dead without him—dead by her own hand, her own disturbed mind. She still didn't understand the intensity of the visions, why they had become so intrusive. Was it more than it had always been? Had she finally lost touch with reality? She didn't know. She did know that Tate had exhibited incredible timing. So, she asked him. "How did you find me? Why were you in the house? And where was Trevor? I thought…"

He put a finger over her mouth. "I don't know where he went." Before answering the other questions, he thought. He couldn't tell her the truth, not yet. He had never expected he would end up feeling this way. In the beginning, it had just been attraction, loneliness. Now, it had become more. He felt for her. He didn't want for her to leave. On the contrary, he wanted her to love him, for as long as possible. "I came by to see you. I thought we could talk…about what happened. I had to bust down the bathroom door to get inside. Why would you do that to yourself, Violet? And what did that scum do to you? It was because of me, I know. I'm so sorry, Vi. I can't even tell you how sorry I am."

It was her turn to silence him. "It's not your fault. I'm the one who invited you in. And Trevor…is Trevor. I don't know what happened." Violet didn't want to tell him what she had seen. He would think she was crazy. He wouldn't understand. She didn't even understand. _Maybe I am crazy…maybe I always have been._

There was a moment of silence as they both thought things over. Violet couldn't help but notice the way his strong arms surrounded her, the feel of his breath on her skin. Their faces were just inches apart, his lips so close to hers. She was in different clothes, she noticed, and wondered how that had happened. He'd undressed her, obviously. The thought made her blush. Tate loved it when she blushed, particularly when he was the cause of it.

"So, are we? Gonna talk about it, I mean. What happened...between us." It was an awkwardly stated comment, but he managed to make it sound as composed as he could. In all honesty, he couldn't breathe.

Violet didn't know what to say to that. She wanted to tell him that she wanted to be with him. But she hardly knew him, and there were other things to think about, things that complicated her life to the point of insanity. She couldn't stay with Trevor. It was too dangerous now. She didn't trust him. But she couldn't lie to Tate.

"What am I supposed to say?" _Brilliant, Violet, just brilliant_.

He knew that he would have to start things off. "I like you, Vi. I want to see you more. And the other night was…amazing. It was really great. I don't know…"

His rambling made her smile. She decided that she wouldn't think about Trevor for the moment and pulled Tate's lips to hers. This kiss was not like their first. It was slow and comforting. As their lips moved against each other, their bodies became entangled. It was a sort of numbing experience in that Violet found she could feel nothing but him, the way he gently clasped the back of her head, the way he kissed her forehead when he pulled away. This was nothing that either of them had ever experienced.

He wanted to say it. He really wanted to. But he knew that it wasn't time. He had been watching her since she arrived, but she hardly knew him. He was in love, but he doubted that she reciprocated the feelings just yet.

The problem is that, when you're a ghost, changes are few and far between. Violet had changed Tate permanently, in a way that even he didn't fully comprehend. No matter, he didn't think he could imagine ever letting her go. So he would bide his time, until just the right moment. He would keep her in his arms for as long as he could. She couldn't stay forever. She was alive. But he could hold her now, if only for a little while.

Reality would simply have to wait.


	7. Affection

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

She waited and waited, but Trevor didn't come home. A whole day had passed, a whole night. She was glad for it. When she first looked in the mirror, she had wanted to kill him. She really had. Tate had helped her to clean the wounds, wipe the lines of dry blood that ran from her lip to the bottom of her chin. Though Violet's jaw did hurt, it was her ribs that had taken the brunt of her boyfriend's anger, and she hated him for it.

Tate had offered to stay with her, at least until Trevor came back. Honestly, he didn't ever plan on leaving her side. He planned on killing him, and then killing him again, but he knew that that wasn't an option. There were other concerns, more pressing ones. Violet wasn't sure what to do. She knew what had to happen, and she also knew what was right. Just what she would say to Tate, she wasn't sure. He knew that she wasn't decided, not about him or anything else. It terrified him.

Violet was standing in the bathroom, where it had all happened. She needed to. It confused her, baffled her. She needed to know why this house, this place, any different from any of the others. Yes, she had seen things before. She knew that she was gifted in some way, or damned, rather, to see the spirits of the dead. It had been an occasional occurrence since she was about six; the first time she ever saw a ghost was in her house in Rhode Island: a little cottage on the coast. But that had not been so frightening, so dark and horrific. The face had appeared to her, smiled sadly and then waved goodbye as it faded away. She could remember it so clearly, so vividly. And, yet, there had been no evidence that it had been real. She tried not to think about it, but she couldn't deny the bruise that she had found the morning after her horrible dream, right smack dab in the center of her forehead where her head would have connected with that of the doctors. She had passed it off as an accidental injury, thinking that, perhaps, she had hit her head in her sleep. But she knew that she was lying to herself. The man in the shower had been the final straw.

Tate, likewise, was fed up, furious at the house and everyone in it. They had frightened her, scared her out of wits. She had tried to kill herself. It had been one thing entirely when he had told them to leave her alone the first time. But this was too much, too dangerous. He found her in the basement, so perfect that you wouldn't know that she was dead.

"Beth." He addressed her harshly, coming to stand directly in front of her. This was the place where she had died, where that wack-job of a doctor had cut her into pieces. "Where are the others?"

He knew that they were there, and they appeared just as he had asked for their whereabouts. Each and every one of them standing side my side to form a perfect line: Nora, Dr. Montgomery, the twins, Bill—that stupid ghost that hung in the shower—even the burnt children and their mother. For a moment, Tate's focus was primarily on him, and then he remembered what they had attempted to do the other night, how they had planned to cut Violet open, take out her heart. Tate still didn't understand the reasoning behind it. Charles thought that he could revive one of them, give them life through a beating human heart. It was a false hope, a ridiculous theory that was so far from realistic that it made Tate sick. He had used to be one of them, just as desperate, just as bitter and dead. Then, he had met Violet. Things were different now, and he would make sure that they all knew it.

"I want you all to leave that girl alone. She tried to kill herself last night, and, so help me, I will rip your guts out every day for the rest of forever if you lay one finger on her. Don't scare her. Don't appear to her at all." But it would not be that simple.

"Why should we hide ourselves when you parade yourself around like some Casanova?" Beth questioned. She always had been the difficult one, something of a snob. "Do you really think that it will work between the two of you? You think you can have that little girl up there? Unless you plan on killing her, making her one of us, I don't see it. She's such a trollop, besides. How could you entertain the idea of spending your existence with such a silly little child, I don't know. Her choice in men alone is atrocious. Two pig heads, and one of them isn't even alive."

For the longest time, Elizabeth had held a grudge against Tate. When he'd died there in the house, she had hoped that they could somehow form a relationship. In her life, she had been used to men wanting her. But Tate had been a resentful little thing and hadn't showed interest in any of the house's many occupants. They were all permanent fixtures, but, for a time, Tate had found it easier to pretend he didn't know he was dead.

"I won't let you do it again." With one final glare, he turned and ascended the staircase.

When he came back upstairs, Violet was still in the bathroom, staring at the bath tub, the shower curtain, through the mirror. Her hair was messy, tucked behind her ears, and her eyes looked tired. She hadn't been coping well, though she tried to keep a brave face. She now had two rooms to be afraid of, to avoid. Somehow, Tate wanted to make it better. He just didn't know how. He went to stand beside her.

"I know that this is all new to you." He wasn't sure just where he was going with this. "But, I promise you, you're not crazy."

Only, it wasn't quite new to her. Could she tell him that though? Would he believe her? She was afraid that she would scare him away, but what did she really have to loose. Tate was new to her and her life. Would she miss him so much if she lost him? She knew the answer, but didn't want to admit it.

"It's not new to me." Violet finally told him, turning to look at his eyes. He watched the way she pushed out her chin, squared her shoulders, the way her hands dropped to her side, covered by those same fingerless gloves that she always wore. He wondered briefly why she liked them. They were obviously too big and slouched down over her wrists too much. The palms were faded and dirtied from abuse. "I see things sometimes, Tate. I always have. I guess there's something wrong with me…but that's why I took all the pills. I saw…something…in the shower when I came in here. It made me a little crazy."

Violet was surprised when he didn't look at her the way that everyone else did, the way that her parents usually had when she was younger. The only person who had ever believed her was her Aunt Rachel, and she was as crazy as they came. But Tate didn't flinch, didn't hesitate, as he responded to what she had said. "I believe you, Vi. I've seen things, too. This place is weird that way. It's called the Murder House for a reason, you know." It was the truth and they both knew it. Behind all of what Violet saw, there was a history.

She couldn't help laughing at the stupidity of it all; Tate soon followed suit. He liked the way she smiled with not just her mouth, but also her eyes. When she smiled at him that way, she looked genuinely happy. It made him want to make her laugh again. He had dimples. It was endearing and even he himself knew it.

For the first time in Violet's life, she did something for no reason aside from that she wanted to do it. In a way, she did suppose that she wanted to make Trevor pay, but, more than anything, she wanted to be close to Tate. When they kissed, she didn't stop, refused to pull away. He made her feel safe, secure, like the whole world could crumble away and he would still be enough for her. He was exciting in an entirely new way. He was different from anyone, but she never could quite put her finger on the reasons why. It made her like him more.

He ran his tongue along her lower lip and she pulled him closer to her, straining to eliminate the small amount of space between them. She scraped her nails over his back, pulled the short, curly hair that hung on the back of his neck. His own hands roamed over her body, making her feel more alive than she had ever felt and thrilling her more than any of those ridiculous stunts that she had pulled in her past. The way her heart thrilled to leave, beating like a drum—a jugged rhythm that made her blood sing with the sensation.

And then, the horror show truly began.


	8. Interruption

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

They were breathing hard, almost too hard for comfort. Neither one could breathe or think. The ghost felt insanely jealous. It wasn't fair for him to be allowed to touch her, to be allowed to be with her. They had spent forever alone, and they'd all been there so much longer than he had, trapped inside the Murder House with no way to even glimpse the outside world. They had been encased in their own misery, and would be for always, as far as they could tell. So, why him? Why should Tate Langdon get to feel so alive? He'd always been such a brooding little monster anyway.

But what would they do? The answer was simple. They would make him pay. They both would pay.

It began with a creaking staircase, a shaking chandelier. The lights in the bathroom flashed on and off, growing brighter and brighter until, finally, the bulbs shattered, leaving the couple in darkness. Violet knew she wasn't seeing things now, because Tate was seeing them, too. Wasn't he? Of course he was. She felt a sudden rush of braver as she broke the kiss, rushing out into the hall there the lights had already begun to go out. She tucked her head, shielded her eyes as she made her way out to the main entrance.

"Why don't you come out already?" she shouted, fully prepared to confront her invisible enemies. She didn't like that they hid behind the house, that they wouldn't manifest themselves to her in that moment. She knew what they were, knew who they were. They wouldn't fool her any longer, would terrorize her. "What are you? Afraid of a little girl? You can do better than that! Come and get me if you want! I'm right here." Her final words were silent but deadly. She was finished.

She had expected for them to appear around her, for them to try and frighten her again. She didn't believe that they could touch her, that they could hurt her, let alone kill her. But Tate knew better. He stood there watching, praying that they would have mercy on Violet, on him. He didn't want her to be killed. He wanted her happy and alive, the way that she was meant to be. And, if she did die, how would it be right for her to be trapped there, in all of the horror that was the Murder House? He could have her forever, but would she want that? He doubted that she would ever be satisfied. Violet would become bitter, eventually grow to hate even him.

The chandelier was still vibrating, as though it itself held the sprits' furious resentment, their unbelievable desire to even the score boards. Feeding off of bad energy was easy. Seeing good energy only reminded them of all the things that they would never be able to call theirs again. In a moment that seemed to stand still in Tate's mind, the chandelier fell, Violet directly in its path. He leapt forward, desperate to push her out of the way, shouting out for her to move. It was close, so close. The two landed hard on the ground, small pieces of crystal and glass showering them, but she was safe, for that instant. At first, he was worried he had hurt her himself by pushing her out of the way, but she quickly scrambled to her feet, just as brave as she had been before, yet baffled by what she was seeing.

"What do you bastards want from me?" she shouted. She didn't understand, not at all. Tate only wished she would stop shouting at them. "Show your faces, you cowards!" It was a shriek, a panicked, almost insane howl.

"Violet, don't do that. You're making it worse." He pulled her into him, tucking her under one of his arms. "Leave now, Violet. I want you to leave, and don't come back until I call your phone, okay? Do you have your phone?"

Again, she didn't understand. "Come with me, Tate. I don't want to leave you here. Come on."

Her eyes were desperate, pleading, on the verge of tears, but he knew the sad truth. He could not leave with her. He could never leave. He couldn't run. But Violet could, and he wouldn't let them touch one hair on her head. "I mean it, Vi. I can't go, alright? I promise I'll be fine. Just trust me." Their eyes were locked for the longest time, battling wills, both equally as strong.

"I'm not leaving. You can't make me. I'm not afraid."

_But she should be, he thought. She should be afraid of me._ "Please." It was final attempt, stated with quivering lips and eyes full of fear of what would happen if she wouldn't listen to him.

Violet shook her head. "Come out!" she hissed one final time and, this time, the spirits obeyed.

They were all there: the man in the shower, no longer severed in two but still butchered, just as gory, the beautiful blonde with the bullet would, the brunette and the doctor. Aside from those who Violet had already seen, there were two young boys, their throats slit, their flesh torn. Their hair was bright red, youthful, but their eyes were angry, filled with an ancient grief that Violet couldn't grasp. She was caught in the ghosts' snares, entranced by their very images. They were fascinating, but so deadly. One more character had yet to join the group: an older woman who made her entrance through the kitchen door.

"What are you all doing out here?" the old lady questioned, looking at the congregation with one blue eye and one white one.

"Shut up, Moira. This is none of your concern, you spineless little whore." Elizabeth had such a way with words.

Slowly, they began to surround Violet, leaving Tate out of the circle, shoving him to the edge of the room. He didn't know what to do. Acting on a reflex, he took the poker from the fireplace and began to swing, hitting various heads, arms, backs legs. They would recover from the injuries quickly, but that didn't make them hurt and less, he knew. "Tell them to go away!" He yelled as he round the huddle a second time, putting every ounce of energy into his flailing arms. "Violet,_ now_…tell them to _go away_!" Each word accompanied another blow with his crude weapon. She had the gift. She was it, one of them. She could make it all disappear.

And so, she did what he had told her. She screamed.

"Go away!"

It was all gone just as quickly as it had come. The ghosts had wanted to stay, but she had a certain level of authority over them. She was a medium. For the same reason she could touch Tate in a way that no other living being ever had. She could be inside of his cold, dead soul, making it her home if she wished. But she had seen too much.

"I have to get out of here."


	9. Confession

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

He couldn't process what she had said, stand the idea of her actually leaving. He felt like had to stop her, like he would die all over again if he couldn't. He needed her, so badly that it hurt. But she was already packing, throwing the entire contents of her drawers into her suitcase, not leaving a single trace of herself behind. Tate could feel tears threatening to spill over the brims of his eyes, but he held them back. It wasn't over yet.

"Violet, I don't think you should leave." he said, voice uncertain and weak. He wasn't very convincing. She didn't see his point.

"What do you suggest I do, Tate? There is no reason for me to be here."

It hurt him to hear those words coming from her mouth. He wanted them to stop. He wanted to take away the coldness in her voice, but he didn't know how. "I'm not a reason?" It was his last argument, the only one he had.

Violet turned to meet his eyes, halting her ministrations for a moment to look at him intensely. "I wanted to talk to you about that, actually." It was all going very fast, but Violet had never been one to be afraid of change. She embraced it, thrived on it, in fact. After a deep sigh, she forged on. "I think you should come with me, Tate. Come with me to Boston. You'll like it. And, if you don't want to go there, we can pick a different place. It doesn't matter to me."

How badly he wanted to leave with her, to pack a bag and run away from all of his problems—all of their problems. He would have been ecstatic to go with her to Boston, to meet her family, to have a normal life with a girl that he believed he loved. But it was too late for that. If he had known Violet would come along, he never would have done any of the awful things that he had to get to where he was. He would have waited patiently for her, regardless of how long it took. Bitterly, he thought of how different his life might have been if he had met her then, fifteen years ago when he was still alive. She could have stopped all of the madness, all of the pain and the sin. She could have rescued him, rescued the people that he had hurt.

"I can't leave, Vi. I really want to. I swear, I want to be with you so badly. I just can't."

His words filled her with anger. She had offered herself to him, offered him so much. And he had denied her. Why? For what purpose? What held him there? "I guess we both know how you feel then. There's nothing left to talk about."

Without another word, she picked up the heavy suitcase, struggling under its weight. She wasn't one to grovel either. Tate, on the other hand, saw no other options. "Don't leave." The tears ran down his cheeks and she saw another side of him—a vulnerable side. To Violet's surprise, she liked it, not that she would ever let him know that. But she liked the effect she had on him, that he would cry for her. "I'm begging you." Tate grabbed the upper part of her arm gently, his hands shaking with the intensity of his dread. He would have given anything to be able to take her away, to be able to even walk down the street with her.

"Why can't you leave?" She spoke through her teeth and it broke his heart all over again.

"I can't explain that now. Just trust me, Vi. Believe me when I say that I want to, but I can't."

It wasn't enough. "I want an answer right now, Tate. I'm leaving. I need an explanation from you as to why you won't, why you want me to stay here? If it's because you don't intend to be interested in me for very long, then I don't want to hear it. I can get that anywhere, _ghost-free_."

She had actually made him angry, raised his voice to a decibel that he hadn't used in a long time. "Fine, Violet! You want to know why I can't leave? I'm dead! I'm dead, okay? And I don't want to lose you because you're the only thing that matters to me, the only thing in this whole damn little world of mine that I don't hate."

She couldn't believe it. Her bag fell from her hand, making a loud crash on the hard wood floor as it fell open, spilling out everywhere. For what felt like forever, she just stared into his eyes, disbelieving, searching for some trace of insincerity. She couldn't find it, and her entire mind fell to pieces along with her body. She didn't know how she had ended up on the floor, tears falling down her cheeks as she processed the possibility. Tate was beside her immediately, whispering in her ear that he was sorry, embracing her shaking form more forcefully than needed. He only wanted for her to stop crying.

"I've really lost it, haven't I? You can't be real…you can't, Tate." She sobbed and sobbed, for the first time in years feeling so vulnerable that she couldn't hold herself together. If she were home, her mother would have held her, her father would have told that it was alright. Now, it was Tate's place to comfort her.

"No. You haven't lost anything, Violet. I'll let you go. You know why?" She shook her head from side to side, confirming that she didn't. "Because I care about your feelings more than I care about mine. I've never felt that way about anybody…" He wanted to say more. He needed to say more. "I love you, you know. It's insane, but I do. I never thought I would, not now anyway. I am dead. This is all there will ever be for me."

His speech only made her body wrack with sobs, whaling and tearing until she didn't think there was any moisture left in her body. Violet would have to make a choice, and she would have to make it right then. Did she love Tate back? Or was she just fascinated with him, with the strangeness and mystery he was shrouded in. She didn't want to lose him, but he was attached to a deadly game—a game that Violet wasn't sure she could win. But had danger ever stopped her before? No. It had made her more eager. This, however, was not the same.

"I love you, too, Tate. But I don't want to die. If those things don't kill me, Trevor will. And I can't leave him if I want to stay with you. He'll kick me out. I'll have nowhere to go where I could see you. It wouldn't matter…I…" The tears had dried, but emotion was still thick in her voice.

"He can't know, Vi. But I won't let him hurt you. I never leave. I'm always around, even if you can't see me. Because I'm a ghost." He wanted to make sure she understood. "And they won't hurt you either. I swear to you, they won't, not if you show them that you want to make peace. They can be convinced. We can make them understand." It sounded crazy, but Violet couldn't help but believe every word. She wanted to.

All she could do was nod a silent agreement to stay. It was easy to realize now that she was in too deep to run from him now, to run from the things that plagued her, haunted her dreams. Then, something occurred to her. "The night I had that dream…it wasn't a dream, was it? It was real. And you stopped them. That was you, who yelled for them to stop." Tate nodded. He admired how quickly she put things together, how open-minded she was, how trusting of him. Violet had faith in Tate and it made him feel like he was flying.

"I took you back upstairs. I hoped you wouldn't remember. You hit your head so hard. I don't think I've ever seen Charles more shocked." He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips.

But there were other issues to be addressed. "Tate, how will you protect me if Trevor can't know about us? We can't tell him you're dead. He'll have me taken away." She had a valid point, and then, something else occurred to her. "He's going to try to make me have sex with him. I know this sounds nuts…we haven't known each other that long, but I trust you, Tate. I don't want him to be the first, whenever he manages to get what he wants from me. It doesn't matter. I love you."

The whole thing was a jumbled mess and it was hard for Tate to follow, hard for him to concentrate with the idea of Trevor forcing Violet to sleep with him running through his mind. "What are you saying then?"

"I'm saying that I want you to be my first. I want you to make love to me, Tate."


	10. Fornication

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Violet sat nervously on the bed, wringing her hands which were, for once, uncovered. Tate would be there any minute. She was waiting for him. She had lit candles around the room, just because she could, to be theatrical…stereotypical, maybe even a little ironic. She was going to have sex with a ghost after all. Violet thought about all of the things that could go wrong, how he could not like her body, how he would see her scars or how Trevor could come home early—he had called that afternoon, promising to be home first thing in the morning. He had been in Nevada for three days by then, playing a gig at a little dive that one of his band member's uncles owned in Las Vegas. In the meantime, she would do what he had been begging her to do for months, only he would not benefit from it as he thought he would.

When she heard the door to the basement close, she shuttered. It was all happening so fast, and she wasn't sure if she was ready. It wasn't that she didn't want to; she just didn't know how. There was this natural fear deep down inside of her, centered right below her chest, burning and aching, pounding away like a freight engine. His footsteps made their way up the stairs, down the hall, moving closer and closer. Violet could hear it as his hand grasped the knob, as he turned it. Tate walked into the room, smiling that heartbreaking smile that always seemed just a little bit sad, and came to sit beside her on the bed.

His confidence disappeared when he realized that he had no idea what he should do. "So…how do you want to do this?" he questioned, his voice faltering ever so slightly. He wanted to remember every moment, for Violet to remember every touch. Most of all, he wanted Trevor to see his hand prints on her body once he had left her. He wanted Trevor to know how he had made her feel, how he had gone where no one else ever had before him.

Violet thought, then turned to meet his gaze. "Kiss me." It was as good a place to start as any.

So, slowly, Tate took her in his arms, pulling her onto the bed with him in the dimly lit room, his mouth moving against her perfectly, as though they had done this a million times. Their bodies fit together flawlessly, he couldn't help but think, and he pressed himself down into her slender form, supporting the rest of his weight on the arm he positioned just beside her head. It began soft and sweet, but swiftly grew desperate and need, rough, as they began to tug at each other's clothes, throwing pieces here and there, following their impulses wherever they might lead. Her nails scratched his skin as he left a mark on her collar bone, relishing in the thought that she would be his. But the scrapes that she left, as well as the blood she drew, had disappeared before he had the chance to feel the sting.

Before long, they were before one another in the most natural form that there was, giving themselves to each other in the one way that they could fully surrender their hearts. Nothing would ever be the same, but neither of them wanted them to. In that moment, Tate and Violet were entirely content to live there for the rest of the eternity, for as long as time would allow.

And then, they took the plunge.

Violet was still wrapped in his arms hours after it was all over, a smile plastered on her face that she simply could not erase. She was sure now. She was in love. It had been everything she had thought it would be and far, far more—like she hadn't known what it was like to love someone, or something, until that very moment, when it had all changed. Tate felt like a part of her now, a part that she could never remove, never separate form what she was, from who she was. They were one person, one single being in that moment of time when everything just seemed to make sense.

Tate was smiling to, his hands positioned protectively over her stomach. They were lovers. The word thrilled him.

"Hey, Vi." He began, thinking very hard. "What're we gonna do now? I mean, how's it gonna be?"

In all honestly, she didn't know. She wanted it to be just like this, but she didn't see how it could be. Her moment of bliss seemed to have ended. The bitterness had begun to seep through already, but she would try not to ruin it for Tate. "I don't know. I guess we'll be whatever we can be."

It was difficult for Tate to choose his words, to figure out what he should say. He knew how he felt, but he didn't want to scare her. "I don't want him touching you, Violet. I don't think I can watch." Anger colored his tone, filling him completely. He couldn't bear the idea of anyone else having the pleasure that he had just experienced—not with his Violet. "I'm not sure if I can stop myself from acting…if he does touch you that way."

She was frightened; she terrified that Tate was telling the truth. The house was in Trevor's name. With one word, he could sign away his life, keep them apart forever. There would be no way to stop him, nothing that either of them could do to remedy the distance between them. Tate could never leave, and Violet would never have the money to buy the house herself. She hadn't even gotten her high school diploma. Then, something dawned on Tate that made him thing, showed him a small window of opportunity that could resolve everything.

"We could get rid of him, you know." he suggested, the notion growing in his mind like a fungus, all consuming. He could feel the old monsters in his mind taking over, thinking of ways to do what he was sure would make all of his problems go away.

Violet was shocked. "You mean, murder him?"

He didn't like the sound of the word. "Put him out of his misery." Tate corrected, his voice hardening. A plan was already beginning to form, thoughts beginning to fully percolate. "We would be protecting you. He's a beast, Violet. He's hurt you."

Could she do that? Could she really kill somebody? "How?" That single syllable was condemning.

"We couldn't do it on the grounds. You would have to lure him away. You would have to do it. But I could tell you, Vi, how to do it so that it would be clean, so that it would look like an accident."

A terrible assumption flourished in the back of Violet's mind. So she went ahead and asked, still pressed against the dark boy that she loved, skin against soft skin. "Have you ever killed anyone before, Tate?"

He couldn't lie, though the idea of her knowing made him sick. "Yes."

There were so many emotions, she couldn't decide on one. She continued to question him. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" It meant the world to her, but she stayed silent. "Isn't one murder just as bad as the next? If I took a life anyway…"

"I guess…but I'd like to know, just the same."

He had to say it. "My mother." It seemed so cold, so painfully full of resentment that Violet needed to know more. He could sense that, so he volunteered the information. "I wasn't in my right mind, Vi. She drove me crazy. It wasn't right. I know that it wasn't right. But she wasn't a good woman, Violet." Pain finally filtered through his mask and she felt bad for him. He was so broken, so damaged. "I am sorry. But I won't be sorry for Trevor. He doesn't deserve my pity."

Looking at the bruised on her ribs, Violet finally made up her mind. If all went as planned, Trevor Boyd would not be breathing in and out much longer.


	11. Justification

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Violet was finally beginning to understand what her parents had meant when they'd said she was impulsive. She hadn't thought any of this through very well at all, hadn't given very much thought to how she felt about Trevor or whether or not he was good for her. She hadn't thought about what she would do if everything fell apart or if she would be safe there in LA. Along the way, through all of the horrible mistakes and missteps, she had found Tate. Now, she was about to make the biggest choice of her life. And all she really knew for certain was that she loved Tate Langdon, despite everything, all that she had learned about him, all of the obstacles that they faced. She couldn't see past it. It blinded her, drove her crazy, and made her desperate to have what she wanted so badly. The lines between right and wrong had begun to blur, fade to shades of gray that she couldn't tell apart from one another.

She was afraid of Trevor. She was afraid of what he would do. He was afraid he would rape her, violate her, hurt her. But could she really do it? Could she live with that? She realized, quite abruptly, that she didn't truly have a choice. She wanted what she wanted, and that was the only way she would ever be able to have it.

It was decided that they would bide their time, plan carefully how it was to be done: the time and place, the manner of death and how the body would be found afterwards. Tate was dead, but Violet was very much alive and very much at risk of being arrested. If she was, she knew what she would have to do. She would have to take her life inside the house, before they could come for her. She had gone off the deep end, fallen completely into her dark little world which she had kept hidden for so long, yet she didn't really mind. She was at ease there, familiar. She didn't need to struggle or rebel. Her mere presence there was a display of deviance.

Tate, likewise, had ceased to mind the dark. He had always believed that there must be a better place somewhere, for people who were better than him, people like Violet—those who were good and wholesome, beautiful. He belonged in hell. But, ever since she had come into his life—or afterlife, rather—he had resided in heaven. Violet was the best place he could ever have imagined, better than even that. She was home. He had worried that the others would intrude on them the other night, but he found that there was one type of energy that they didn't mind so much. Nora hoped that a baby would become of it, but that was impossible. It always would be for them, for Mrs. Montgomery, no matter how badly they desired new life.

This brought them to the first manner of business they needed to attend to. Violet needed to be accepted by the spirits in the house. They needed to know her, to understand that she would be just as much a one of them as anyone, that she was with Tate and that they wouldn't be allowed to play with her the way they wanted to. She would be untouchable there. The world was dangerous enough.

The two found themselves in the basement once again, the walls still covered in Violet's paintings—lovely little murals in shades of black and white, purple and red and blue. She had missed her time there, but the place still made shivers run down her spine. Tate, of course, was not afraid in the least. He had been there forever.

"I like them, by the way." he told her, jerking his head towards one of the decorated cement walls. She smiled graciously, mumbled a quick 'thanks', then stepped away from him. She would do this her way. He wouldn't be her spokesperson, as easy as that may have sounded.

"Hello." She spoke with authority. "I'm Violet Harman. We haven't actually met…I guess you were too busy trying to scare me to death." There was no reply, but she continued on anyway. "I know that you all know everything that's happened. And I want you to understand that this is how it's going to be. I'm not going anywhere." Tate was reminded that she would, one day, have to leave. She couldn't stay forever. Eventually, she would age, outgrow him. He didn't want to think about it. "I'm staying right here. You won't be able to scare me away, so don't bother trying. I love him." The last part was whispered, but it was what caught her invisible audience's attention.

They joined her there, intrigued. Nora was the first to speak, her voice just as beautiful as she was—delicate and angelic. She didn't belong there, in that dark, dank place, surrounded by the damned. She wasn't like Violet—dark by nature. She appeared to be so light, so kind and gentle. "You do now?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "What will you do in ten years from now? Tate will be seventeen forever. He died just before his eighteenth birthday, you know. Such a pity."

He had been so young. How much time had passed? Violet would have to ask him later. "I only know what I told you. I will stay as long as I can. I don't know what else to do." There was so much more against them than she had originally thought. It had all seemed so insignificant at the start, but, hearing it out loud, despair began to encircle her. "I can't leave now, Nora."

Before she had said that, they had all been scoffing at her, laughing at her girlish foolishness. But, with that final word, that title, she had silenced them all, brought them all to a screeching halt. Violet had known the woman's name, though she'd never been told it. She had thought it a million times without realizing. It was that same gift—or curse—that had plagued her for her entire life. It came easily now, each of their names, the pain in the depth of their souls. Violet could feel it, as though it was her own. It was paralyzing, but it helped her to understand. She felt for more, felt beside her for Tate. When she found him, he was not as dark as the others; or, rather, the darkness had faded into the background. At the forefront of himself was happiness, contentment. She searched for the words in her mind to describe it, all of his conflicting emotions. Then, she saw it clearly.

Tate felt hope.

She was a medium. They had not known, but they now understood more fully. Each of them had been attracted to the girl, drawn to her in some form or another. She was their bridge into the world, the closest thing to a living ghost that they would ever encounter. Violet could be among them, understand them in a way that no one else ever had been able to from the other side, help them to comprehend how to be happy again, for to feel vital. It was a sort of silver lining that they clung to in that instant, in the dark confines of the murder house.

Violet Harmon was one of them: brave and strong, just dark enough to see the other side. She was almost fearless, bold and determined. And Tate could not have been prouder to call her his own.


	12. Reconnection

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Moira, the maid that had interrupted them the day the chandelier had been dropped, hadn't left Violet alone since that day in the basement. For some reason, she thought that they could be friends, best of friends, in fact. Only, Moira was far along in years and it had grown uncomfortable. She talked a lot about men. Nora was the worst, though. She wanted a baby. It was all she ever heard the woman say. _'Where's my baby? Where is he?'_ again and again. How hard was it for her to understand, to remember what had happened. To be sad was one thing. To make everyone around her pay was quite another.

It occurred to Violet just an hour before Trevor was to be back that all of the ghosts bore the wounds that had killed them. But Tate's body was flawless. He had no blemishes, no injuries or gaping holes. She wondered how he had died, if he had somehow found a way to hide the burden of his demise. She knew that he had murdered his mother. Had he been killed by the police? Or had he taken his own life. And, if so, how had he done it. The questions were endless, the mystery of her lover's tragic fate all consuming. Violet wondered if it had hurt much.

"My death wasn't too painful…physically, that is." he told her when she asked. Their time together was about to be cut short, but they wouldn't waste a second. "Emotionally, it was awful. I didn't really want to die, but I didn't have much of a choice. They would have locked me away forever. They thought I was crazy, you know. I never would have seen the light of day again." Violet held her breath, waiting to hear the rest of his story. "I thought that it would take me away from here. I thought I would get to leave. I thought that all of the voices would go away forever." She knew the voices that he was taking about. She had heard them too. "Obviously, I was wrong. I overdosed on pain killers…my mother's. I remember falling asleep, and never waking up again, not until afterwards."

"What did you see then?" she asked, wondering what had become of his body.

"I saw myself, still on the bed where I last remembered being. I didn't move anymore, of course. My body was dead. I took it out to the back of the property, buried it right up against the fence. I tried to leave, but I couldn't. And then I understood the voices. They had belonged to _them_." There was silence. "The cops never did find me. I'm buried deep."

It was the strangest conversation she had ever had, to have to hear where her boyfriend's body was buried, from him of all people. It was something of a reality check for her. Tate really was dead.

"Take me there."

He led her to the exact sort of place that he had described, far in the back of estate, right up against the property line. The spot that he pointed out to her was covered in ivy and hasta, so overgrown with greenery that it seemed almost impossible that, just below it, was a corpse. He explained why the plants were there.

"I planted them. They used to be up front, but I didn't want anybody to dig it up. After all the dust had settled, it seemed like the best way to keep it all hidden, once new families had started moving in. Your boyfriend's relative was the second person to own the house after us. She stayed for a surprisingly long time, considering all the trouble we gave. She was a little eccentric, but Beth got to her eventually, gave the poor old woman a heart attack."

Violet kneeled down on her knees, touched the soil, tried to really feel what was beneath it. She could see the similarities, the ties between the spirit and the physical body of the boy she loved. He had been there for a long time, she could sense, and she could feel his pain. It had been a lightless, lifeless fifteen years. It touched Tate to see her do this, see her connect him with what he had once been. Deep down inside, he could feel it, both the wholeness and the longing. She had been his missing link all along, but there was nothing to be done to change things now. He realized that she did love him, then, enough to see both halves of him and to accept it for what it was—a nightmare, a never ending nightmare.

He decided they had been there long enough. It was overwhelming just to stand in that place. He put a hand on her shoulder, tilted his head towards the gazebo near the garden. "Come on, let's go."

She complied, going to sit in that same place where she had first seen Tate, right on the railing, overlooking a patch of flowers. He came to stand beside her, and then pulled something out from behind his back. It was a rose, only not quite.

"I know how you hate things that are normal." There was a hint of humor in his voice as he said it, a smirk playing across his countenance. "I spray painted it black…I thought you'd like that. It's like me; it looks dead, but it really isn't, not on the inside."

It was a sweet moment, as they kissed there, both of them feeling like they knew what they wanted for once in their silly, confused lives—or, rather, existences. They had a plan, twisted and disturbed as it was, they trusted that it would lead them to happiness. Death and violence were all that they knew in this new word—gore and horror. That was the reality of the world. The both of them knew it, and they would soon share that knowledge with Trevor. It seemed that their sins would not matter, because, in the end, they would be together.

Did it make her a bad person, to take a life in order to get what she wanted? Violet wondered. Trevor was a monster. But wasn't Tate a monster too? In a way. Wouldn't she become a monster too, as soon as she had accomplished what she intended to? She knew that she would. The question was, would it matter? Would she feel anything—guilt or regret? Violet had a feeling that she would feel more sorrow if she abandoned the idea, didn't follow through with what Tate and her had decided was best.

She kissed him one more time, whispered in his ear that she loved him. She wanted him to know that no matter what happened over the next week or so. She would always love Tate, until the day she died, longer than that. She had found the truth of the afterlife, for people who had done the sorts of things that Tate and the others had, for restless souls. She wondered if there was something else, or if it wouldn't matter what someone had done. When she died, she wanted to be with Tate forever. Would her sins ensure that fate? She could only hope.

It was all very sick, demented. But there was nothing that Violet could do to change the way she felt, the way she thought. It was out of her control. Whatever happened now was inevitable.

There was the sound of a car pulling up the drive and they knew that their time was up. A new phase of Violet's life had begun, and there was no turning back from here. She had sealed herself inside of a tomb with the bonds of love. There was no way out, no way to escape what she had become.


	13. Calculation

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Tate watched her walk away, observed the way her small body moved. She was so fragile, so dainty. The idea of her being a murderess seemed absurd, as absurd as the notion that she could hold her own against the supernatural, that she should be so brave to not fear the implications of living in that ark world. Her hands were genteel, her smile kind, her eyes bright and welcoming: intriguing. There was nothing in her that was evil, yet she was so willing to do this thing that she did not hesitate as she approached the man who would be her victim. He truly was a hideous creature—not outwardly, but within his soul. When he was dead, Violet would be able to see this undeniably in her mind's eye.

Tate's thoughts quickly turned to the previous night, however, the way that they had moved together and the thought of how many more nights they would be able to spend just exactly that way—occupying themselves with their needs, their desires, with soft and rough touches, love and passion. He had not imagined how expensive her cuts would be, though. There were so many…too many remnants of her own tortured mind for his liking. He didn't want for her to be in such pain, because he understood the extent to which she hurt. He looked down at his own scars—imperfections that Violet had not yet noticed. They were lower down on his arms than hers, more dangerous. They had been more thrilling, encased with the knowledge that he could cut too deep. The slices that Violet made, though some were located over her main veins, were usually higher up. He made up his mind right then that he would show her his own, to let her know that she was not alone. Tate also liked the idea that they had something else in common, something that tied them to one another in some way.

Telling her about how he had died had been painful. He hadn't wanted to tell her any details. It made him sad to think of it. He had been so miserable, so disturbed, so beyond consolation. The death had not been peaceful. It had been torturous. Violet didn't need to know this, though he was certain that she had already sensed it. He could only hope that Trevor's death would be as horrific as his own, as long and painful. He had lied about that too. Tate's body had had a bad reaction to the drugs. He had writhed in pain for days, waiting to die, praying that someone would take him away from the agony. Eventually, somebody had. It had been Charles Montgomery, who had delivered him to the other side, helped him to hide the body. It was that friendship, that respect, which had allowed him to save Violet that first night when they had tried to take her heart. The doctor had refused to perform the surgery, at Tate's request. His wife, Nora, would not contest the decision and none of them knew how to do what he did beside. It had been Dr. Montgomery, in fact, who had formulated the plan of how Trevor would be done away with: a carefully assembled, deadly cocktail of chemicals that would cause whoever consumed it to slowly waste away. The final cause of death would be determined as organ failure due to illegal drug abuse as his last meal was to be laced with a healthy dose of Boyd's own cocaine.

It was going to take time to what they wanted to do. It took time to kill anybody in a way that would go unnoticed. Poisoning was an art, a slow and meticulous process—particularly in the way that Violet and Tate had chosen to do it. In the end, Trevor would be in the hospital, far away from the house and the danger of his soul being trapped there with them.

When Trevor pulled up to the house, stepping out of the taxi, luggage in hand, Violet pretended to be happy. She pretended to run to him, to hug him and tell him that she had missed him. In reality, she would miss the time away from him. Tate felt a small pang of jealousy—or, rather, an immense urge to cut off the man's lips—when he kissed her, long and passionately. She looked normal, like anyone kissing their boyfriend. She looked like she cared, but she couldn't. Tate told himself this as he faded into the background, avoiding the outcome that he would have loved to bring to fruition. Violet loved him. He had to be confident in that.

She would have told him how ridiculous he was being had she known the way he felt. She could only imagine how angry it made him to see her with Trevor, to see her pull off her part so flawlessly. Violet had always been a good liar though—even gifted in the art or portraying a false emotion. It was easy for her to kiss him, to say that she hated it when he left, even when it wasn't true. For years, she had consumed herself with lying about nearly everything: what she saw, what she did, the things that she heard and felt and, above all, the things that frightened her. She suffered, but her parents had never seen it. The scars up and down her arms were a testament to that. Violet felt, suffered, so much more than she ever let on. In her life, she had floundered for so long that it seemed routine to be known as the bane of society, of the world that she lived in.

She had ordered Chinese food that night, had already made herself a plate. The rest of the cartons were meant for Trevor. It was the combination of the dishes that was deadly, or so Tate had said. At first, he hesitated by the doorway, finding it unusual that she was treating him so well. It was all of his favorites, but he wasn't suspicious enough to care or to restrain himself from consuming it.

"You learned something from our little fight the other night, didn't you, Vivi?" he guessed as he heaped the deadly rise onto his plate. She smiled back sweetly, raising her fork to her mouth in triumph.

"I certainly did." The meaning behind the words was lost to him, but Tate surely understood the irony. She had learned that she wanted him to suffer, learned that she wanted him dead, wanted him to feel the hopelessness, the helplessness, which she had felt. "I learned so much."


	14. Complication

**Author's Note: I just wanted to say that, for my first fanfic, I am so happy with the feedback I have received. For those of you who have put my story on your favorites list or on your alert, thank you soooo much. Also, it would be awesome if you guys would put me on your favorite author's list. I promise there were be a lot more fanfics written! If you have any suggestions for stories, I would be thankful for the input. Thanks again! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

Trevor was already asleep, come down with the 'flu.' He'd been vomiting for the past three days. If everything went as planned, he would be dead in another four. Violet lied beside him, staring up at the ceiling, curled up on the smallest corner of the bed, waiting for Tate to knock on her bedroom window. They did just that every night. He would come for her, and they would meet in the extra room—the one that Violet used as a drawing room. What happened there never left, but it was their favorite part of the day, the only time that they would spend together, the only time they were allowed to be in love. The knock came around two in the morning, when they were both sure that Trevor was asleep. Violet slipped out the door, down the hall. When she opened the door, the room was empty, so she bolted the lock and waited. When Tate finally did appear, it was sudden and a bit startling.

"Hey." He breathed, stepping closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She looked up at him smiling, and he loved the way he saw himself in her eyes, how purely besotted she appeared. It was something to have such an effect on her—a girl who never let anyone have an effect on her. Forcefully, Tate pulled her body flush against his, pressing his fingers into her hips as he kissed her wildly. They had become good at this.

It wasn't long before clothes had been shed and they had joined together again, one sweaty, breathy mess of arms and legs and hearts lying in a bundle on the floor, moving with each other, exchanging caresses and 'I love you's, sweet nothings that wouldn't make much sense to anyone but the two of them. Their chests heaved up and down and the world, for just a glimmer of a moment, was very near perfect.

There was a creaky floor board in the hall that made a noise when you stepped on it, but they were too enthralled to hear it being disturbed. And the door knob jiggled, jammed. All that Violet and Tate could hear, though, was their breathing, the sound of their hearts pounding away, directly connected to one another both physically and spiritually. When something began to bang on the door, they didn't stop. It was probably just Elizabeth or Henry. It wasn't as though they hadn't played similar jokes on them before that night. Everything seemed just exactly right.

Only it wasn't any of the ghosts on the other side of the door, any of their friends or signers of their makeshift peace treaty. It was Trevor, angry and confused and ready to break down the barrier between him and whatever was on the other side of it. He knew that it was Violet, but he didn't want to believe it. What he saw when he did finally get inside was far worse than what he had come home to the previous week, that first night that Tate had been found inside the house. IT was far, far worse.

The two lovers, still connected, caught in the act and completely oblivious to what was about to happen. Their oblivion, undoubtedly, was quickly shattered as Trevor lunged, fully prepared to brutally kill and dismember anything in his path.

Violet and Tate both hurried to find their clothes, pulling their things onto their bodies in the pitch darkness of the room like they were in the middle of a fire drill. She stumbled while pulling up her pants and Tate caught her, but protecting her from accidental injury was not his primary concern.

"You bastard!" Trevor yelled, throwing his fist towards Tate's jaw. He took the hit, but recovered quickly, as most ghosts do. It didn't help things that Tate had entirely lost his temper.

"Go right ahead! I can do this all night!" It was true. He could endure the beating for the rest of eternity if there would be time. This only reminded Violet of how truly horrific it would be for Trevor to die there. So, instead of watching him get killed, she stepped in.

But not before Tate had the chance to land a well-placed hit, successfully breaking Trevor's already crooked nose. "Stop it! Both of you!" She shouted, leaping between them, but one of them hadn't stopped landing blows, wouldn't stop for the life of him. His fist connected with the side of Violet's head, knocking her to the ground.

It was over then, and they all knew it. She couldn't stop it now if she wanted to, because Tate would never stop. He flew across the room, tackling his opponent to the ground and easily holding him there, punching him again and again. Violet screamed, called for him to stop, but it went on forever, when he finally did give up, it was safe to assume that there would be no coming back from this. They had messed up—completely blown it—and the only question now was if Violet would be able to pick up the pieces.

"You need to leave, Tate." she whispered, motioning towards the door. He knew that she was right, but he also knew what would happen once he had left. "I'll be alright. I can take whatever he sends my way. But you have to promise not to come back, not for any reason. Do you promise?"

It was killing him to nod his head, to stand up and walk away, to banish himself to the farthest corner of the property, where he hoped he wouldn't be able to hear that monster's shouts, the screams that would come from the mouth of the love of his life. But she was more than that. She was the love of his afterlife, and whatever would come for the rest of the immeasurable time he would spend there on Earth.

She told herself that she would be brave, that she wouldn't cry out no matter what, that she would be strong. Above all, she swore that she would find a way to keep her and Tate together, if she had to murder the bastard with her own bare hands. She would lure him away. She would have to. There would be no other options.

"You slut." he hissed. "Virgin, you told me…and you sure seemed like one too. You were a real prude, you know that, Vivi? I think I did right by you, sticking around this long—I'm a man, I have needs, not to say that they weren't being fulfilled but that's no concern of yours." She hated him so fervently, wanted to see him suffer such intense pain that it frightened her to think that she felt so coldly towards another human being. "And this is how you treat me? He's a baby, Violet! I'd bet he's not a year older that seventeen, eighteen. I'm a real man."

The words he spoke sent her into such a blinding fury that there were soon no hopes of her faking an apology. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be, you spineless little ingrate."

"You're so willing to be that child's whore? Fine, go live in his house. Sleep in his damn bed. I hope you don't mind having sex with his parents in the next room."

Violet walked out of the back room, into the bedroom where she proceeded to pack her things. She couldn't stay the night. He wouldn't let her, she knew. Trevor was just that way; it was one of his many flaws. When he was done with you, he was finished forever—not to suggest that he didn't hold a grudge. Exacting revenge was something of a hobby of his, something that he was, surprisingly, quite good at. This was the only thing that concerned her. Tate was already dead, but what about her? Trevor knew people everywhere, most of them quite unsavory characters. And how could she die away from the house, if it came to that, forever separated from the only boy she had ever cared about.

As she walked out the door, something occurred to her. It was the final phase of their plan and she wouldn't let it be spoiled now. In fact, if she knew Trevor—and she did—everything would fall perfectly into place. It was all a matter of luck.

"Oh, Trevi," she began, cocking her head to the side. "enjoy your booze, top shelf of the fridge."

But the night wasn't over yet. She walked down the street then, once she was sure he was gone, circled back around. Tate met her near the sidewalk, the farthest point of his prison. Things had not gone as planned, but the two believed that everything would work itself out, as long as they had faith in each other, in the truth that they were in love, that what they had was worth fighting for.

"I love you, Violet. You're the only light in my life. I won't give up, not ever." He told her, embracing her one last time.

"I love you too, Tate. And I will be back. I promise, if it's the last thing I ever do. I'll keep trying. It might still work. Just keep an eye on Boyd, okay. But don't lay a single finger on him. I don't want to be trapped with him forever, alright?"

He could only nod. They both wanted to cry for fear that this was the last time they would be together. A tear slipped down each of their cheeks and they ignored the wetness. It didn't matter now if they were strong or not. It only mattered that they were touching, that they wouldn't allow themselves to be separated.

And then, Violet walked away—no place to go, nothing to do except bide her time and wait for the day when everything would be right again.


	15. Damnation

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

"I need to see her…just one more time." Tate shouted, pulling at the roots of his hair. He couldn't take it any longer, the idea that everything that they had done was for not, that they would be separated permanently. "This isn't working."

Elizabeth was not amused. "Just off the bastard already. It'll be easy, especially for you. You were going to kill him anyway."

He was particularly aggravated now, and, for a second, he understood why her killer had targeted her mouth. It was a cruel thought, but he couldn't keep it out of his mind. "You know why I can't do that. He'll be trapped here with us forever. Do you want to spend the rest of eternity with him? I don't."

"You could have taken the phone from him when he tried to call 911."

She was insufferable. "But that was the plan, Beth. He was supposed to die in the hospital."

Violet had called just an hour earlier to let them know that Trevor died as they had planned. They had pumped his stomach and he had been released the day before. Now, his whereabouts were unknown and Tate was terrified that he would come after Violet. "You know how he likes to run off, disappear for a few days. He'll be back." Violet had assured him, insisting that she was safe. She's been able to check herself into a motel for the time being, but her money was running out fast and nothing came cheap. They were running out of options. Soon, she would have to head back to Boston. Tate would never see her again.

"Isn't her father a doctor or something?" Nora questioned, seated in one of the wing back chairs, her legs crossed at the ankle. "Surely he wouldn't mind giving his daughter a leg up in the world. She could ask him for a loan of sorts." Had none of them been listening?

Tate's voice rose steadily, growing louder and louder. "She doesn't talk to them anymore. She wouldn't even contemplate asking." His fist collided with the wall in anger, leaving a gaping hole. He couldn't really bring himself to care in the moment. Everything was slowly slipping away from him. Soon, the world would be just as dark as it always had been. If he couldn't have Violet, he would have nothing, but he could not escape the pain, because he was already dead. Otherwise, he might have contemplated suicide—it was the strangest thing to feel so alive, even when you have no body to live in.

In the meantime, Violet was alone in her room, thinking of ways that she could resolve all of their issues. She hadn't told Tate everything, hadn't told him that she knew where Trevor was, that he had come to see her. She certainly hadn't told him that, as they spoke, Trevor had been showering in the bathroom of her motel room. She was in way over her head, and nothing could help her now. Even though Trevor now knew everything, he refused to abandon the idea that she was his, that she belonged to him. She was simply a possession in his eyes, and he wouldn't give up so easily. In all honesty, Violet was more concerned about what Trevor planned to do to punish her than she was about him having come back. He wasn't in his right mind; he never had been. She knew that now, but it was too late. She had involved herself with something so dangerous that even she could see no way to overcome it. The web of lies, deception and sanity had become so twisted, so hopelessly tangled, that it baffled the minds of all involved. A bitter love triangle had been formed, and there was no way it could lead to any outcome other than sorrow and pain, abuse and violence. For Tate, it would grant him an eternity of hell, of regret and longing: loneliness and heartbreak. For Violet, it would most likely award her death, away from the only thing that she still cleaved to.

As she laid on the bed, her hair wet, wrapped in a white robe that was too big on her, she thought of what she would have to do that night, the things that she would have to sacrifice. There was so much to lose and so little to gain. Trevor stepped into the room, wearing just a tower. He told her to take off the robe and she slowly complied. She felt like dying, but she was doing this for them, for her and Tate, so that they could be together again.

Trevor began to kiss her and she could feel the tears falling over the brims of her eyes. She felt empty and so alone. She pictured Tate, hoping that the image of him would get her through the night, but it only made her cry more. It didn't go unnoticed.

"What's the matter with you?" he hollered, sending Violet into full on hysterics. She couldn't do this. She just couldn't. "You miss that pip squeak, don't you? This is about him?" She nodded silently, unable to find her words. She pulled her robe around her body again, shaking as her hands fumbled with the ties. "Fine. I guess he'll miss you too." She didn't hear the threat in his voice, though she might have had she not been so distraught. It was a deadly warning that she failed to grasp in time to save herself.

He began by wrapping his arms around slender neck, squeezing as hard as he could. He looked into her eyes, saw the tears and the pain. It was too much. He couldn't look at her face, watch the life leave her by his hands. The image would haunt him forever, but he wanted to see her dead. He wanted her to pay for what she had done to him, how she had humiliated him so completely. She was released, but not safe as Trevor crossed the room and began to search through his bag. He had picked up the pistol in Las Vegas when he had been there the previous week, from an arms dealer who was friends with one of his fellow band members. They had told him it was untraceable. Now, he planned to find out for himself.

He fired at Violet and the bullets—three of them—caught her in her chest and stomach. He couldn't shoot her head, he simply couldn't, though it would have been the easiest kill. The sound of the pistol shot through the night, breaking the silence. He had made an awful mistake, but what could he do to take it back now. What was done was done.

Violet felt the places where she had been injured, clutched at them. When she pulled her hands away, they were covered in blood mixed with her own tears. She couldn't survive this. She would bleed out far too quickly. There was only one thought it her mind. It echoed all around her world, surrounded her completely, and she moved her limbs as it commanded. _I can't die here_, the thought desperately, running out the door of the motel room.

Trevor had bought a car—an old truck—and it was parked out front. She knew that he kept the keys in the glove box. When the engine roared to life, Violet hit the gas, praying that she would make it in time. The street lights were blurred, the headlights blinding as she sped down the highway, following the only route she knew back to where her only home she had ever known was located—with Tate. Tears obstructed her vision even more as she sobbed his name helplessly, pitifully. This couldn't be the end. It just couldn't. She knew what would happen if it was.

Tate could almost feel it, feel that something wasn't right. He went to stand out in the yard, watch the cars pass, just one or two every few minutes or so. It wasn't a busy street, so he noticed when he saw the old Junker shooting towards the front gate. He could see her face, see the blood as she hit a tree just across the street. She was so close, yet impossibly far.

Violet fell out the door on the driver's side, onto the pavement. She thought she could crawl to where Tate was waiting, not crying himself, but her strength had left her, was almost entirely gone. It was difficult to pull herself across the blacktop, but she kept going, inch by agonizing inch.

"Vi, please. Come on, you can make it. You're almost there." He told her, pleading now. If she died right there, right in that place, just feet from the safety of his arms, they would be forever doomed to love each other from afar. They would never touch, never feel, never be together again. "I love you, Violet. Just take my hand." He had opened the gate now, extended his arm as far as it would go without the house pulling him back. They were so close.

As her head fell, her eyes closed, his heart broke. "No!" He shouted, a vicious ripping sound bellied deep within his chest. It couldn't end like this. It just couldn't. He started to run, to go to her, but he just found himself again at the back door of the house. He repeated this endless loop several times before finally coming to a halt, right back where he had begun.

A neighbor from down the street was approaching, a man in his mid-thirties. He jogged past the house nearly every evening after dinner, but Tate had never actually seen him up close. "Please!" he called. "Help us! Just pull her inside the gate!"

It was confusing to the stranger, but he did as he was asked anyway, dragging the girl's limp body into the yard and then running away, back to his own home to call an ambulance. He promised to be right back, but Tate couldn't have cared less. It wasn't Violet's body that he was worried about losing. It was her soul. He sobbed over her, begged her, breathed into her mouth like he was supposed to, trying to bring her back to life, anything that would rescue her from the other side of that fence. But there was so much blood. She was so still, so motionless. Her eyelids didn't move, didn't flutter. Her chest was still, as far as he could tell though he could hardly stop moving his own arms long enough to really see.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he assumed that it was the man or, perhaps, one of the other spirits in the house, trying to comfort his shattered soul, but he couldn't look away from her still face, completely drained of color, drained of life. He had never wanted this for her, never wanted to see Violet any other way but happy and secure. The hand was persistent, it shook him, demanded that he look up at the countenance of the person who it belonged to. At first, he was angry to have to avert his eyes from that bloodied face of the girl he loved, but, when he saw what was behind him, the body was all but forgotten.

Violet smiled down at him, tears in the corners of her eyes. She hadn't been ready to die, but she was glad to do it with Tate. Just the relief in his eyes was enough to take away the strangeness of it all—having to see her body from the outside, marred with brutal injuries and empty, lacking any humanity. It did not belong to her anymore. It was its own entity, aside from her.

Tate took her in his arms, disappearing from the world of the living. No one could see them but those eyes inside the house, and this was the way that they liked it. He killed her everywhere, all over her face—her nose, her eyelids, her forehead and, finally, he lips. He lingered there, savoring the moment, the permanency of it all. As the sirens blared in the background, the rest of the world faded away, disappearing. This was their forever.

As her physical body was taken away, beyond hopes of being saved, the two spirits, now perfectly contented with their fate, turned to the steps of the Murder House. It was no longer a dark place to them. It was the place where their love resided, where they would be together infinitesimally, for as long as they could imagine.

"What's it gonna be like now?" Violet asked him, leaning into his side.

"Just like always. It's you and me, together forever."

This—death—was their happily ever after.


	16. Prologue: Retribution

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

It was all over. The dust had settled. Violet had said goodbye to herself, to her body, to the things that had once tied her to the living. She had seen death before her time, but it had never stopped her from living. And it wouldn't even then, once she had died herself. Being with Tate was living, in some sick, twisted way. His mind was dark and disturbed—the mind of an unsettled spirit, a damaged one. She could never deny his past, what he had done in his life, the blood that was on his hands. But she was no saint either. She never had been, and he was the only form of joy that she had ever known. He filled her, consumed her, occupied her every thought and catered to her every need. He was all she would ever want, all she would ever have, and it made he glad to say that she was, at last, at peace. A lingering spirit forever, trapped in madness, though she didn't seem to be able to mind it.

Trevor, they heard, had been taken where he belonged. The gunshots had been heard all around them and Violet had made quite a scene. It didn't matter anymore, however, because nothing could separate her from Tate, not a single thing in the world: not death or force or violence or sorrow. The only thing that could hurt them was each other.

And as they lay on the large bed in what had been her and Trevor's bedroom, it only seemed right that it be christened anew. It belonged to them now, and Tate had no trouble saying it. "This is our home, Violet…our castle." He smiled in a boyish way, running his hand over her smooth skin, appreciating every line and facet of what she was. She couldn't help but love that the two of them were always a little off kilter, a little strange in a way that excited her, after everything that they had been through. Tate always surprised her. "Let's not let anybody ruin it." He continued, looking deep into her eyes. "The house would only hurt them anyway. Let's scare them all away, until the ends of time. And we can stay here, like Romeo and Juliet."

And he had a moment of clarity as she recalled the old books she used to read, the ones that he had long since stuffed away in a corner of the attic of the house, far from his thought and his sight. He hadn't been in touch with this side of himself for so long, had forgotten how he loved the poetry of it all, the beauty. "' Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?'" They both laughed a little at this, at the irony of the words, not their own—in fact, from an entirely different lifetime, a different world. "'For fear of that, I still will stay with thee; And never from this palace of dim night depart again. Here, here will I remain.'"

There they would both remain, until the end of time.

He pulled her to him, kissing her softly for once, so gentle that it was almost painful. This was their forever, and it was better than they could have ever hoped. They had found their light in the darkest of darkness, and there they would reside in the shadow of their troubled love.

The End.


End file.
